Outliving a parent can feel both like a blessing and a burden. The experience of death offers a unique perspective on life, one that often eludes those who haven’t faced such loss. While I empathize with others’ grief, my own emotional response is complex, as I struggle to truly connect with their sorrow.
The stark reality of death is not a lesson I sought. I’ve been haunted by the loss of life in places like Palestine and Ukraine, experiences that eventually took my father’s life. I didn’t feel I required an object lesson in mortality, yet life insists that we all face it. Death is inevitable; it touches those we hold dear and ultimately strikes us down as well. We have no control over that outcome.
Most of my efforts have been directed towards managing my father’s estate. The aftermath of his sudden passing is rife with bureaucracy. Even in death, capitalism looms large, casting a shadow over those left behind. Just the act of dying is costly. My father’s burial came to $15,000, while the plot itself was a kind gift from a relative who had alternative arrangements in mind.
When death arrives unexpectedly, there’s no time for planning. The grave is situated far from family, a stark reminder of just how much Durham has changed over the years, now marked by the relentless din of development. If fortune smiles upon me one day, I would relocate my father’s final resting place to a quieter setting, perhaps under a tree or in some picturesque location akin to those seen in movies. He often played classic jazz on the office radio to drown out the distant hum of the highway.
Tonight, I will sleep on the office floor for the first time since we returned from Cary three weeks ago. Surprisingly, the floor feels warm and comforting beneath the remnants of his old sweater. I imagine that when EMS arrived, they had to cut it off him, yet he was already gone.
Modern medicine is a strange blend of fascination and fear. It can sustain a body long after the brain has ceased functioning. By the time help arrived for my father, he likely had already suffered irreversible damage. I ponder the nature of such events—does a heart attack happen in an instant? I recall my own brush with death when I was caught in a riptide as a child, acutely aware of the imminent danger.
I lived long enough to witness my father’s demise.
It’s a common occurrence; if you live long enough, you will outlast those you care about. This shared experience of loss should connect us on a deeper level, perhaps even prompting a reevaluation of societal norms. Yet, it ultimately feels like a perpetual cycle of violence. Across any historical period, mass death has been a consistent phenomenon.
Today, we find ourselves grappling with the ongoing SARS-CoV-2 pandemic, a new source of mortality that leaves many questions about its long-term effects still unanswered.
Perhaps many have chosen to act as if the pandemic is over. I cannot say for certain. The public health data is alarming and unmistakable.
Yet, in the grand scheme of things, death remains an unlikely risk. A significant one, certainly, but still a risk.
I had no idea my father had removed his mask while shopping at Lowe’s. Generally, he always wore one, or so I was told. However, I can’t entirely fault him. None of their acquaintances had succumbed to COVID. Daily life continued with little regard for masks or mortality.
If you’re going to take chances, exposing yourself to COVID seems to be a gamble with favorable odds. In most cases, the probability of contracting the virus is relatively low. My father played Russian Roulette, and this time he lost. But his bet wasn’t entirely unreasonable; most people who contract the virus survive.
I have chosen not to take that risk due to the potentially severe consequences. The effort to avoid infection isn’t overly taxing, aside from missing brunch. What’s at stake is simply the chance to live another day.
Thus, it’s hard to blame him. Everyone constructs their own narrative to cope with outcomes. In my version, he neglected his mask, and after years of chronic back pain, he didn’t return to retrieve it. He took a gamble and lost. Most people win that bet; he did not.
I find life to be frustrating overall—climate change, pandemics, and neoliberalism all contribute to a disheartening existence. I often wonder if my reluctance to care for my parents played a role in my father’s passing. At a certain point, you realize your parents are fallible beings navigating a flawed world. Eventually, you develop the capability to critique their decisions and offer constructive advice. Yet, I never inserted myself into any medical discussions; I was reluctant to engage.
Perhaps I should have recognized my responsibility. Maybe that could have made a difference.
Engaging in “what if” scenarios can be so captivating; the possibilities are limitless. Many of these scenarios are plausible. We were all aware of COVID’s risks. It never occurred to me to recommend that he take a rapid antigen test when he felt unwell—a simple test that could have been lifesaving. Would a few days have altered the outcome? What if I had insisted he get vaccinated with Novavax in 2024? What if emergency care had provided Paxlovid? The variations are endless.
At the end of every scenario, he remains dead. Dead this year. Dead every year. Forever.
America’s public policy is, in many ways, a form of eugenics—and few seem to recognize it.
What will happen to children who experience multiple infections before graduating high school? A recent RAND study highlights that around 30% of students report absenteeism due to illness. Even if COVID poses minimal immediate risk, the cumulative loss of educational opportunities is significant. Additionally, we know children have an elevated risk of long COVID following a second infection.
I cannot predict what my future holds. Death is inevitable, of course. But what about everything that comes before?
I wish you all a joyful new year. Please take a moment to express your feelings to those you love—while there’s still time.
Wishing us all the best.
